


I Believe, I Believe

by T Verano (t_verano)



Series: December, This Time Around [13]
Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: 2015 TS Secret Santa Drabble Days prompt "Silent Night", Christmas fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2020-05-02 00:43:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19188454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_verano/pseuds/T%20Verano
Summary: December with the guys a couple of years post-TSbyBS.Watching Christmas movies turns out to be not much of a substitute for sleep. Or for being with Jim.





	I Believe, I Believe

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 2015 TS Secret Santa Drabble Days prompt "Silent Night"
> 
> The movies referred to are _Miracle on 34th Street_ (the 1947 version) and _White Christmas_ (1954) with Bing Crosby. (If you've never seen _Miracle on 34th Street,_ please be aware that there are spoilers for it in this drabble.)

Blair pressed the mute button on the TV remote just as Natalie Wood started repeating, "I believe, I believe," in a voice bereft of all actual belief. It was almost three, which sucked, since he had a community breakfast to be at by seven. Being CPD's sole representative at the breakfast sucked too, since that meant he had no backup from Outreach to cover for him if he overslept.

Of course, in order to oversleep you first had to _fall_ asleep, so that shouldn't be an issue, actually. There didn't seem to be much chance of that happening any time soon.

He sighed and slouched back against the couch cushions. Chamomile tea hadn't helped; valerian, either. Neither had meditation. Neither had lying down in bed sometime around midnight and counting sheep. Well, sheep first. Then llamas. Then iguanas, and man, Blair was totally not digging into his subconscious right now to gain better self-knowledge about that particular progression of sleep aid animals.

He glanced up at the bed in the loft; the comfortable, usually cozy and warm bed, which tonight seemed like a cold, silent mockery of comfort and warmth — and of sex. Definitely some mockery going on there; the bed was clearly related to Seinfeld's Soup Nazi, lying there Jimlessly and all but yelling at Blair, "No sex for you!"

Sex wasn't really the point, though, at least not tonight. Tonight, the point was too-cold sheets that Blair had to warm up entirely by himself. The point was too much mattress without Jim there. The point was too much silence without the sound of Jim breathing peacefully beside him, silence that let the nighttime sounds of the city intrude too much.

The point was no Jim. For too many nights now.

Not for too much longer, though, relatively speaking. You had to keep this kind of thing in perspective, right? So maybe he couldn't make it up to the cabin again before Christmas Eve; that really wasn't that far away.

Sort of not that far away. Relatively speaking.

On the TV screen Natalie — having survived being temporarily ousted by a series of commercials — was racing across the front yard of her future house, soon to discover the swing in the back yard; her faith in Kris (or Edmund Gwenn) and Christmas and magic and dreams-come-true instantly restored. In a moment Maureen O'Hara and John Payne would find Edmund Gwenn's cane in a corner of the living room and would be forced to consider having a little outside-the-box faith of their own.

Never giving up — not entirely, anyway — until you got what you really, and desperately, wanted… Blair could relate to that: he hadn't given up and now he was with Jim. _With_ Jim.

He had Jim.

And a cold, empty, silent bed, and a breakfast meeting halfway across the city in less than four hours. 

And _White Christmas_ up next on TV. He turned the mute button off; might as well listen to Bing sing for a while.


End file.
